Guy Smith - The Lurkers

'That doesn't explain why the cat was removed after it had been killed then brought back and burned in the fire.,' Peter said. 'Or why it was killed in the first place.'

'Damned queer.' Calvert repeated. 'But we've absolutely nothing to go on. Look, Mr Fogg, I'm on nights next week, panda patrol. I'll try and make a few sorties up in your area; ride round the lanes and sit and listen here and there. Who knows, if there is anything going on I might drop on it.1

Of course there was something bloody funny going on. Peter groaned inwardly. A bloody campaign by loony Welsh fanatics that began amongst the kids in the school playground. 'OK, thanks.' He stood up. There wasn't much else he could say. 'My wife's nearly going out of her mind, I can tell you.'

'It'll probably take her a while to settle.' Calvert opened the drawer, and brought out the file again. 'I know myself there's a hell of a difference between living in the city and living out here. But this bit of aggro will die down, I reckon. Whoever's doing it will get fed up soon.'

'By the way1—Peter turned back at the door—'a huge herd of deer has turned up around Hodre. I saw 'em this morning, grazing in the fields adjoining the forestry.'

'They always come in the autumn.' The policeman was flipping over a pile of looseleaf pages. 'Guess that's something that's been happening for centuries, long before the Commission planted the big wood. Starts about the middle of November, and by Christmas there's a huge build-up of herds which have spent the summer in the lowlands. Almost like something was calling 'em up there, a sort of Pied Piper, if you know what I mean.'

Peter didn't know what the other meant, but it made him feel uneasy. Something inexplicable—like everything else about Hodre and its surrounding hills.

Janie had already left when Peter arrived back home. As he walked in the house he noted that the kitchen sink was piled high with dirty crockery. She hadn't even stayed to wash-up before she left. As though she couldn't wait to get away.

Hell, she was working herself up for some kind of nervous breakdown. Perhaps it would be better if she did go and stay with her parents for a while. But it wouldn't solve the problem in the long term. They had two choices: they either stayed and fought against this persistent unknown foe or else they got out altogether. Surrendered.

He seated himself at his desk. The same sheet of quarto had been hi the typewriter for three days now, waiting for a single paragraph. Maybe just one sentence would suffice. He furrowed his brow. In a way it was like cross-country running. You struck a piece of flat terrain and made good time. Then you came to an unexpected obstacle, a wide water-jump maybe that you knew you couldn't get across so you had to find a way round. So you lost all the time you'd gained.

He stared at the typing and saw one or two minor changes he would have to make in the second draft. He wondered why they had not occurred to him in the first place, why he hadn't got it right then, why it took him a long time to spot things that were right under his nose. Like Hodre. God, what the hell was going on here? Could it be Ruskin, conducting a campaign akin to that of the Wilsons? But if the landowner scared the Foggs out, Blackstone would only find another tenant. Unless every tenant was worn down until the place just couldn't be let any more and Blackstone sold out. It seemed an awful lot of trouble to go to for a few acres of almost barren grassland that wouldn't support more than a couple of dozen sheep. Still, Ruskin was an odd one and he didn't like being crossed; one only had to look into his eyes to realise that.

Peter gave a sigh of frustration. Problems everywhere. This book for a start was becoming one gigantic headache. Literally. Sod it, the relentless throbbing was starting up again inside his skull, as though minute hammers were pounding against his temples. He hoped he wasn't getting a migraine. Maybe he'd better shelve the book for today, give it some more thought, try again tomorrow. Damn it, no. Always tomorrow. He'd never finish it that way. Skip that chapter ending for now, start the next one and come back to it later.

He rolled the paper out of the machine and flipped a fresh top copy off the pile in the Croxley box. His hands were slightly unsteady as he lined up the carbon and the blank paper, then wound it into the old Imperial. Three capitals, double spaced—T-W-O. He hit the keys hard with just one finger, giving himself a kind of breathing space whilst he mulled over the introductory sentence; like endings, beginnings had to be punchy too. And right now the words he grasped for were eluding him, jack-o'-lanterns dodging away from him, hiding in the mists of his brain, mocking him.

He slumped back in his chair. If he wasn't careful he'd start smoking again; if there had been a cigarette handy he would have used it. He glanced at his watch: eleven-thirty. He wondered if Janie had left him any lunch. Probably not, because he usually preferred to cut himself a sandwich when she was away.

He had almost decided upon a sandwich; not that he was hungry but it would give him the feeling of doing something constructive and that was very necessary right now. A couple of aspirin, too, might help.

Then the telephone in the hall rang—a sound that electrified the nerves, a ringing that was almost a groan, as though the bell was under strain and might peter out at any second. Perhaps the power was down, reduced voltage for some reason.

He got up slowly, knowing he didn't want to answer it. It was probably Tolson, his publisher's editorial director, a real pain in the arse, renowned for chopping and changing. He commissioned a book on the strength of a four-page synopsis without really giving it much thought, then got into a sudden panic about six weeks later and came up with a host of ridiculous 'suggestions', and of course the writer had to implement them. The fact that he was already forty thousand words into the first draft didn't matter a damn. Peter had heard all this from other writers; You were luckv, old son—a first book accepted on a completed manuscript. You just wait until he commissions something.

This could be it; Tolson deciding he had to justify his position.

Or, he realised with a faint sense of foreboding that passed as quickly as it came, it could be the nocturnal hoaxer again. Well/he'd soon be dealt with: Fuck off, you bastard, I'm far too busy to waste time listening to your asthmatic wheezings.

Peter's fingers closed over the handset, lifted it off its cradle and killed the laboured ringing.

It could be Mr Hughes: Gavin's not well. I'd be glad if you could fetch him home.

But he had to stop speculating and find out who it was.

'Peter Fogg speaking.'

'Is that Mr Fogg of Hodre?'

That's right.'

This is Llanrhayader General Hospital Accident Unit here, Mr Fogg.'

'Yes . . . ?' A sense of apprehension knotted Peter's stomach, trying to figure out a hundred reasons in a split second why they should be phoning him.

Tm afraid we have some bad news for you, Mr Fogg—'

His mulch of intestines was compressed into something the size of a golf ball and twice as hard.

'Your wife's been in a car accident, Mr Fogg. I'm afraid she's suffered multiple injuries and is still in the operating theatre. She hasn't regained consciousness yet . . . '

Oh, Merciful God! How? Why? Surely you're mistaken. Not my Janie. I?$ impossible. I refuse to believe it!

On rare occasions, escalating panic can be transformed into numbing calm and logic as the brain processes its own tran-quilisers. And that was what happened to Peter Fogg in the blinding two or three seconds when he almost fainted. He started to go down into a dark abyss, then came straight back up.

Til be there as soon as I can.' He dropped the receiver back and started checking that he had the car keys in the pocket of his jeans. Llanrhayader The name was familiar; a large market town somewhere in the country. Brain and body had co-ordinated into ice-cold efficiency, enabling him to find the road atlas amidst the other books on the shelf and locate index and page in a matter of seconds.